


A Night In The High Country

by gregorin_greymalkin



Category: Snowy River: The McGregor Saga
Genre: Episode Remix, Gen, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 04:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gregorin_greymalkin/pseuds/gregorin_greymalkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remix of 'A Son for a Son' in which McAllister takes out his annoyance with Matt on Rob.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Night In The High Country

McAllister was a man unused to being thwarted, which was perhaps why he took defeat so ill. After a lifetime of getting his own way through bullying or bribery he had suddenly come up against the immovable object that was Matt McGregor, and because of Matt giving sanctuary to his errant wife, McAllister was being denied his heir. McAllister believed in an eye for an eye; it seemed only right to him that if was to lose a son then so should McGregor. 

He would have liked to take the Reverend -- it was his wife who had threatened to shoot him in the shoulder and who had given Rachel somewhere to escape to in the first place -- but to injure a man of the cloth, however lowly his position in the church, might have repercussions he had not banked on; so it had better be the other son, the one whose name he could not remember, but who had also dared to point a rifle in his direction when he had been teaching his father some manners.

Once McAllister had made up his mind, he was not a man to dally. He gave his orders.

 

McAllister was the last thing on Rob’s mind. His courtship of the woman who had held him at arm’s length for so long was proceeding too pleasurably for him to have much thought for anything else. Matt had spoken to him twice about day-dreaming while herding the cattle, his tone mildly exasperated rather than sharp, for Matt had always been a hands-off father, never one to impose his will if a child could be left alone to come to its own conclusions. Rob had shamefacedly resolved to keep his mind from straying, but all the same as he picked his way up the familiar track from Langara to Shoshoni Hills, his horse knowing the way too well to need much guidance from him, his thoughts were certainly all on Montana and not at all on McAllister.

The men came out of from behind the trees, before he had time to give more than a stifled exclamation of surprise, they had pulled him down and had his arms held tight behind his back. “What the hell -- ?” Rob began angrily, and then McAllister stepped out in front of him. Rob recognised the man at once; he thought of the whip cuts across the back of his sister-in-law’s friend and his mouth twisted with contempt. “What’s this, McAllister?” he demanded. “Picking on a man for once? I thought it was only women you hit?”

The back-handed blow would have knocked him down if he hadn’t been held from behind. He turned his stinging face back round with blood running from his mouth but his eyes were disdainful. “What do you want?”

“My son,” McAllister said flatly. He was as immaculate as ever even down to his leather gloves. He was carrying a new rawhide whip, Rob noticed, one that had not yet accumulated any bloodstains.

“Well, you won’t get any help from me,” Rob spat.

McAllister put the handle of the whip up under his jaw. “I’m going to give your father a chance to trade my son for his -- you’d better pray he sees reason.”

“My father hand an unprotected woman and her baby over to a brute like you?” Rob countered contemptuously. “That’s not something that’s ever going to happen.”

McAllister punched him hard in the solar plexus and Rob doubled up, gasping for air. McAllister spoke softly, “You’d better hope that it does.”

Linsk looked uneasily at his boss. He felt things were getting out of hand. Kidnapping your own son was one thing, grabbing someone else’s was something else entirely; and not just anyone’s son, but the son of Matt McGregor, damnit the man was a legend; but he also recognised the light of fanaticism that was gleaming in McAllister’s eye: the man was not going to stop until somebody gave him what he wanted - or stopped him themselves. Linsk would have given odds that if anyone could stop McAllister, Matt McGregor could, but at the moment things were not looking too good for the McGregor in their care.

Rob tugged angrily at his bonds. He was not at all frightened, just enraged. He had twice almost managed to get away from his captors - once he had managed to pull his arms free and make a run for his horse but had been grabbed back before he could reach it. He had managed in that second flurry to land a satisfying punch on one captor’s now bloodied nose and McAllister’s mouth - the man was now dabbing angrily at a cut that matched the one he had given Rob - and so far Rob felt honours were even; but with his wrists bound in front of him and that rope securely fastened to a tree, his chances of getting free had just considerably worsened. He wondered if they were planning to leave him here -- the nights were bitter this far above the snowline -- and without a coat he was certainly going to be in for an uncomfortable sojourn, but the woods offered some protection from the cold, and he was young and resilient; it was certainly not life-threatening to be left up here -- he was certain that Montana would raise the alarm before too long, and was also probably perfectly capable of following his trail -- but it would get him out of the way and knowing McAllister, it might be that every hand was going to be needed to keep baby David from falling back into his clutches -- 

McAllister cracked the whip and suddenly had all of Rob’s straying attention. Rob had not realised until that moment, how he was presuming that his father’s position would secure him against worse than an uncomfortable night. He hated to think that his shrugging insouciance in the face of capture had derived solely from a sense of his own protection from real harm -- but even more than that, he hated to think that McAllister was not bluffing. Rob stared the other down, saying contemptuously, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Wouldn’t I though?” McAllister enquired with deceptive softness. He brought down the whip with surprising force.

Rob cried out as it cut through his shirt to lay open a bloody line across his back; the shock of the stinging pain like nothing he had ever known. He hissed as the welt smarted, the aftershock barely fading from the initial stab of pain. The one whose nose Rob had bloodied grinned while Linsk continued to stare in disbelief; he said, “You’re not going to -- flog him?” He wanted to add ‘Are you completely insane?’ but did not quite have the courage. The other grinned wider, “Want me to rip his shirt open?” he enquired.

“No,” McAllister’s voice was cool, “I want something to send to his father with my ultimatum -- the shirt will do very well once I’ve finished with him.” He turned to Linsk, “And to answer your question with one of my own -- Do you have a problem with that?”

“But you can’t -- I mean -- his father’s a member of parliament -- you can’t just --”

McAllister’s mouth was set hard with cruel determination -- and just a hint of madness -- “Matt McGregor is keeping me from my heir -- let him feel what it’s like to lose a son -- and let him understand that it doesn’t do to cross Thomas McAllister. I want him to remember that long after this matter has been settled to my advantage -- I want him to have a lasting reminder of what happens to people who get in my way.”

“You’re crazy,“ Rob said shortly, “and it won’t do you any good -- Dad’s not going to make deals with a man like you, not for anything.”

McAllister caught Rob’s hair in his gloved hand, pulling his head back. “Not even to save your life?”

Rob said nothing but he began to pull at his bonds, wrists twisting with sweat as the knots only tightened. Behind him, McAllister took a step back; Rob heard the swish of the leather and closed his eyes...

Linsk was feeling sick. He was now party to something he not only disapproved of but which seemed likely to get them all sent to prison. McAllister could justify it anyway he liked but Linsk recognised it for what it was -- near-demented spite -- a desire to get back at Matt McGregor, anyway he could, for daring to defy him. He found his voice, “You’re going to kill him,” he said hoarsely.

Much to his relief, McAllister stopped. The man shrugged, “I don't think so -- he has youth on his side -- and youth is so -- resilient --” He stepped forward and caught Rob’s hair again, pulling his head back as he spoke softly, “Still think I’m bluffing, McGregor?” 

His breath sobbing in his lungs with the effort of not crying out, Rob didn’t trust himself to speak. He felt very cold although he was pouring with greyish sweat. All of his energies were concentrated on the effort of not giving McAllister the satisfaction of seeing how much it hurt and how very much he wanted it to stop. As the man raised his arm again, Rob flinched in readiness, but this time the blow did not fall. He twisted his head round to see Linsk holding McAllister’s arm. “He’s lost a lot of blood,” the other said, his face as white as Rob’s own, “and if you’re going to deliver that ultimatum to his father you can’t afford to waste any more time.”

McAllister considered for a moment and then nodded; he crossed over to his horse and put the whip back in his saddlebag. Rob’s knees abruptly sagged, worn out by the effort of keeping himself braced against this beating. McAllister sneered, “I thought these mountain men were supposed to be tough.”

Linsk was bending over Rob concernedly, self-preservation pulling him in two entirely separate ways; there was an edge to his voice as he said, “He’s still conscious, isn’t he? How many men do you know who could have taken what you’ve been dishing out without cracking or fainting?”

McAllister shrugged, “You sound like you admire the mongrel, Linsk.”

Linsk looked at the bruises circling Rob’s wrists, the places where the rope had cut into the skin and shook his head, the sickness persisting. “Let’s just get on with it,” he said raggedly, “If Taylor delivers the shirt to his father, I’ll take him up to one of those cabins --”

“What?” McAllister said softly, “And bandage his poor sore back? And light a nice warm fire to assuage your conscience? No, Linsk, I don’t like faint hearts and I don’t like infirmity of purpose --” he jerked his head at the other, “Taylor, cut him down and get that shirt off him. I’m going to write a note to his father.” He turned back to Linsk as the other took out his knife, “Are you hoping he’ll speak up for you at the trial? Well, there isn’t going to be a trial, because either his father delivers my wife and son back to me -- something which after all his public muscle-flexing I doubt he’ll be proud to advertise -- or his son dies. I’ve told Taylor which path to follow -- somewhere nice and out of the way where they’ll never find him without my assistance -- as you say, he’s lost a lot of blood, so that and the cold will finish him off quite nicely if his father doesn’t play ball with me -- the shirt should help him make up his mind --”

Rob barely stifled a cry as Taylor roughly cut him down then jerked his ragged bloodstained shirt from his back. Linsk watched as McAllister pinned his neatly-inscribed note to its wet surface and wrapped both in brown paper, addressing the parcel to Matt McGregor. He handed it to Linsk. “Deliver this. I advise you not to be seen doing it -- I doubt McGregor’s temper will be improved by its contents and he just might take out his annoyance on you. But all the same, he should think himself lucky -- unlike me, he has another son...”

Rob had done his best to fight his escort, but Taylor was implacable, strong, and perfectly prepared to be brutal, and Rob was very weak from blood loss. His back was a screaming rage of welts, the slightest movement jolting sharply through every stinging cut, and his bruised wrists were now just as tightly bound behind his back. Taylor was dragging him along by the hair, cuffing him when he stumbled. Rob’s legs felt as though they had been filled with lead, shaking with the effort of propelling himself along. The other hauled him roughly up a steep path and Rob saw a hut ahead. Taylor dragged him into it and flung him down on the floor, not caring if he broke his arms in the process. He smiled down at the hapless Rob. “It’s going to be getting real cold, real soon,” he said, “you’d better start praying your Daddy wants you back.”

Rob gathered the last of his strength, “Your boss isn’t ever getting his boy back,” he managed.

Taylor kicked him and then walked out, leaving him doubled up and gasping on the cold board floor. Rob heard the door being bolted and padlocked -- a useless precaution as when he tried to stand up, he found he couldn’t; the world was spinning, he was shaking with the cold, his back was a mass of white fire and there was a hissing in his ears. It was almost a relief when the soft black sack of unconsciousness closed over his head.

 

Matt had opened the parcel with his mind on other things, “I don’t trust McAllister,” he observed to Colin, “that sort doesn’t just give up --” he broke off as he saw the ripped mess of red-stained cloth. “What the hell -- ?” He pulled it out just as the women came into the room. It fell into shape in his fingers -- a man’s once-white shirt, the back of it diagonally shredded as though someone had attacked it with a knife, the whole thing edged and stained with blood. 

Kathleen frowned. “What is it? Some kind of practical joke?”

Danni shivered. “Not a very funny joke if it is.”

Matt unpinned the note and unfolded it. His face paled and Colin started, “What is it, Dad?” Matt handed it over and Colin read aloud, “ ‘Tit for tat -- you have my son -- I have yours --’” he broke off to stare at his father. “Does he mean Rob?”

“Well he can’t mean Michael, he’s in Ireland,” Matt said rigidly. “Read the rest.”

Colin bent his eyes back to the note, “‘And yours won’t live until morning if you don’t give me back my wife and child -- it’s very cold up in the mountains, McGregor, especially when you’ve lost --” Colin became aware of his wife, sister, step-mother and Rachel all listening; he folded the note back up and turned to Matt, “What are you going to do?”

“Lost what?” Danni demanded with an edge to her voice. “Lost what, Colin?”

It was Rachel who answered her, “A lot of blood,” she said, sinking down into a chair. Emily gave a small cry of horror but still patted her friend on the back, “Rachel it’s not your fault,” she said quickly, “and McAllister’s probably bluffing -- that could be rabbit blood --”

“It won’t be,” Rachel said dully. “Tom likes to cause pain --” she broke off to look up at Matt. “I’m so sorry. I’ll go back to him, I promise I’ll go back to him -- I’ll try and make it up to Rob - I never meant for anyone else to get hurt because of me --”

“You’re not going back to him,” Matt said flatly, “and no one’s going to die. Now, whatever McAllister’s done to him, Rob’s tough and he’ll hang on until we find him. From this note, I think McAllister’s relying on the cold to kill him-- well, it won’t, Rob’s spent too many nights up above the snowline to die of a little cold now. I’ll find Rob and if this is his blood I’ll make McAllister pay for it -- but you’re staying here and Colin’s staying with you.”

“But, Dad --” Colin began, “don’t you want me to come with you?”

Matt shook his head decisively, “I’m going to pick up Montana on the way -- that’s the way Rob was riding so that’s the place to start from anyway -- between us, we’ll find him, don’t worry.” His gaze rested on the torn shirt and he lifted down his rifle. He and Kathleen exchanged a glance and perhaps only she knew just how angry he was. She couldn’t help thinking that if McAllister had seen the look in Matt’s eyes at that moment, he would have left the state and kept right on running. “Keep Rachel and David indoors,” he said briefly, “I’ll be back with Rob as soon as I can.”

 

Montana had never seen Matt like this. The man was always equable. She had come to think of him as everything solid, everything unruffleable, a fixed point like the North Star that nothing would ever cause to shift; she had never seen him burning with a slow, white rage before, or ever expected to. She almost wished Rob could have seen it -- seen just how much his father cared, but perhaps he knew that anyway. Like Kathleen she wondered if McAllister knew just how fatally he had overreached himself with this attempt at coercion; all he had done was produce a resolve smelted to an unbreakable mass in the fires of anger.

“We’ll find him, Matt,” she said, quelling her own fears.

“I know,” he said.

“He’ll be fine.”

“He’d better be,” Matt said shortly, “And for his sake, McAllister had better have been bluffing, and that had better be rabbit blood, or I swear his son isn’t going to have a father for much longer.”

Montana shot the man another sideways glance and couldn’t help thinking that there was something magnificent about the McGregors when they were aroused: made all the more impressive because for so much of the time they just got on with things. But it was still a surprise to see Matt like this; the man had always protected his children in subtle, quiet ways, mostly by letting them make their own mistakes and then gently nudging them in the right direction. When Colin had been so unfairly threatened with losing his church, Matt had been quietly supportive, argued his son’s case with reason and common sense; and when Rob had been creased by that bullet he had been concerned; but she had never before seen him incandescent with fury on behalf of one of his children; and she knew part of it was anger with McAllister for taking a fight that had been between him and Matt and involving Rob in it, just as an appendage of his father. Matt confirmed her supposition with his next words, “It was nothing to do with Rob. I bet McAllister doesn’t even know his name -- he’s only done this to him to get at me, because he’s my son -- well, if he wanted to get at me while the hell didn’t he come after me?”

Montana spoke gently, “Because he knew this would hurt you more, Matt.”

 

Rob awoke in a blue-tinted darkness to find that he was freezing, thirsty, hungry, and hurting. He was also very angry. He knew that in a stand-up fight he could take the pampered McAllister every time; but it hadn’t been a stand-up fight; all the same he was furious with himself for having let the other man -- Rob gritted his teeth -- it was too humiliating to even think about -- letting himself get leathered like a naughty schoolboy by some deranged aristocrat? He tried to sit up but it was difficult with his hands tied behind his back, he also tried to get a squint at those stinging cuts, but all he could see was the beginning of a half-dozen welts by his shoulder blade -- scabs were starting to form over them, although they were still oozing in places, but all the same he reckoned that was an encouraging sign - you could almost say he was halfway healed already. Except when he tried to get up the room just started spinning, “Oh boy,” he murmured aloud, and his breath was a white mist in the darkness as he sank back down. He tugged fretfully at his bound wrists but the ropes just cut deeper. “Hell,” he said shortly. He found he was shivering with the cold, too weak to move, and one big ache of pain. All in all, so far things were going completely McAllister’s way. Rob groaned with frustration; he would have banged his head against the floor in his irritation, except that he really didn’t need any more bruises. A very small voice inside him wanted to tell him that he was scared; that there was a very good chance he was going to die up here and that he really didn’t want to die yet; but he determinedly shut it out of his head. He looked around the chilly cabin, the ice that was starting to freeze inside the windows and closed his eyes. He needed to get his wrists free, that was the first thing -- he determinedly shut out the remembrance that even with them free he was too stiff with cold and weak with blood loss to walk -- getting his hands free gave him something to think about that wasn’t dying of hypothermia. He would work on that.

 

It had been dark for hours before they reached the clearing. Montana didn’t know what Matt was steering by; perhaps he just knew the high country so well it spoke to him even by starlight, or perhaps he was just following his instincts; his instincts as a countryman but also as a father who wanted to see his second son alive again; either way he led the way at daylight speed, hardly faltering, straight to a tree with a rope tied around it.

Montana lit her lantern and they both examined the rope in silence; then she lowered it and they looked at the footprints in the soft earth: two at the base of the trunk, two a few feet behind those - about the right distance for one man to lay his whip across another’s back. A torn fragment of bloodstained shirt was fluttering in the mud like a bird with a broken wing. Matt picked it up then spoke conversationally, “I’m going to kill McAllister.”

“McAllister’s the type that would rather die than go to prison,” Montana reminded him. She raised the lantern higher so they could see the footsteps going off in different directions -- only one showed two tracks and she pointed to it. Matt nodded, “That would make sense -- they’d want to take him up above the snowline.”

“It’ll be cold up there,” Montana had voiced her thoughts before she could stop herself.

Matt laid a comforting hand on her arm. “Don’t worry -- Rob takes a lot of killing.”

As she followed Matt, Montana couldn’t stop herself from thinking _Yes, but he takes a lot of catching too, and McAllister’s already managed that._

 

Rob knew he had to stay awake. In this weather, if you started to feel warm and drowsy, that meant you were dying; you had to welcome the cold, make it prick your eyelids open, keep you breathing that painful white-frost air that seared your throat and chest every time you inhaled; but it was getting harder and harder not to drift off; he kept finding his head lolling down towards his chest and then having to jerk himself back into consciousness. Even the pain wasn’t enough now; even twisting his wrists so the coarse edge of the rope dug spitefully into his cuts wasn’t always enough to keep his eyes open. He knew he didn’t have much longer.

 

“There!” Matt exclaimed, “Look -- up there!”

For a moment Montana couldn’t see anything and then her eyes dimly perceived something solid and black against the night sky. “A cabin.”

Only the savagery with which Matt levered apart the chain told Montana how scared he was. His face was unreadable. He pulled the door open and said quietly, “Rob?”

Montana’s fingers were trembling so much she could hardly light the lantern, “Rob?” she called and her voice sounded panicky and louder than Matt’s. Light flared and she held it up. A dark figure on the floor made her heart leap with relief and fear. Matt strode across the boards to sink down next to him. He took the other’s bare, bloody shoulders and shook him gently. “Rob? Wake up.” As the other didn’t move, he barked, “Rob!” his voice a sharp command and Rob started confusedly back into sentience. “I did chop the wood,” said Rob fretfully.

Matt embraced him tightly and Montana found that she was crying; unsure if it was her own overpowering relief or Matt’s bringing the tears to her eyes. Matt was still holding him and Rob felt the relief flood through him, “Of course,” he managed a shaky smile, “I was never really worried for a minute. It’s really quite pleasant up here -- bracing.” The two men met each other’s gaze and Rob moistened his lips, “Thanks for getting here, Dad.”

Matt gripped his hair, a brief squeeze of acknowledgement. “Thanks for hanging on till I did.”

“I told McAllister you’d never give him David back -- ” Rob frowned, “You didn’t, did you?”

Matt shook his head as Montana came over, “Hello, Rob,” she said with a bright smile as she wiped the tears from her eyes, “Can’t leave you alone for five minutes, can I?” She sank down behind him and took out her knife. At the sight of his back she met Matt’s gaze, she said tentatively, “Have you seen --?” Matt nodded grimly and Rob shifted uneasily, “It’s not that bad, is it?” he asked, “I mean it’s not necessarily going to scar or anything, is it?”

“Don't worry,” Montana cut through his bonds with swift efficiency, “it doesn’t mar your beauty at all. Actually, I think it’s kind of sexy.”

Despite the fact he was shivering violently with the cold, Rob brightened, smiling, “You think so?”

“Oh absolutely,” Montana took the coat that Matt handed her and wrapped it gently around his shoulders, “but you know, much as it’s a beautiful night and everything, I think maybe we should get you home. Kathleen will be worried.”

Matt helped Rob scramble to his feet, quickly looping one arm around his neck to hold him upright. Rob winced, “Sorry -- legs have kind of seized up.” Montana took his other side and he turned his head to look at her, “But you weren’t?”

“What?”

“Worried?”

“What me?” Montana shook her head, “Not for an instant. I mean you’re always telling me how good you are at taking care of yourself, so of course I knew you’d be just fine.” She and Matt exchanged another glance as they helped carry Rob back to the stamping horses. “You know,” Montana added in a conversational undertone, “I’m not sure that sending a man to prison isn’t an unkind deed -- maybe a bullet in the head is kinder in the long run.”

Matt helped his shivering, whip-torn son up onto his horse before turning back to her, “You know, Montana,” he said, “I think you could be right.”

It was Rob who said, “You can’t kill McAllister.”

As he had seemed to be dozing in the saddle, they both looked at him in surprise. He glanced between them, “That is what you’re planning, isn’t it? Well, you can’t do it. Montana, you’ve already been accused of one murder, and Dad, you’re a member of parliament. You’ve got to leave him to the state guard. You’ve got him cold, after all. And there’s no harm done.”

“No harm done?” Matt repeated incredulously.

“Yeah,” Rob tried to straighten up -- to generally look a little less like someone who’d had the stuffing knocked out of him and was in need of avenging -- “I’m all right -- thanks to the two of you - and with any luck we can get him for assault. Either way he’s not going to have any luck trying to get Rachel to go back with him, is he? So we won.”

Montana said, “Tell me, Rob, do you feel like a winner right now?”

“Not right now,” he acknowledged with a grimace, “but by morning I reckon I’ll be feeling pretty smug -- I told McAllister you’d find me and you did. It’s always nice to be proved right.”

##### Fin


End file.
